


Commedia dell'Arte

by mikkey_bones



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 18th Century, Anthropomorphism - Freefom, Crossdressing, Fashion & Couture, French Revolution, Historical, Insanity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-03
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:52:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkey_bones/pseuds/mikkey_bones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Versailles, 1789, months before the French Revolution. Arthur pays Francis a visit to discuss the economy, but Francis would rather discuss pantomime theater and there is something not-so-subtly wrong. But what is it they say in times of trouble? "Qu'ils mangent de la brioche."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Commedia dell'Arte

Arthur hated going to France, especially to Versailles. With all the inhabitants of the palace - noble or not, servant or ruler - going around with that knowing look on their face, he felt as if everyone had some special secret to which he wasn't privy. And they had the even more annoying habit of tittering behind their hands as he tried to question them in broken French. It wasn't that he didn't know the language - he had known it quite proficiently a few centuries ago, _honestly_ \- but he had never been particularly apt at making himself sound like a native. French, to him, would always be foreign; he was unable to wrap his mouth around the words and make them lyrical, poetic, as the native frogs could.

Not that he minded though, much; English was a perfectly poetic language in itself and it wasn't as though he was _jealous_ of the way French sounded, rather, it reminded him of a particularly sophisticated cat trying to cough up a particularly disgusting hairball. But still.

He finally presented himself to the chamberlain or butler or whatever they were called in France, who gave him that same knowing look and directed him to the queen's _salon_. It seemed Francis had been spending more time than was natural with Her Majesty Marie Antoinette. If Arthur didn't know better, he would say the philanderer was up to something. But no nation would stoop so low as to seduce their one of their leaders, though Francis had certainly come close, a few hundred years ago.

The chamberlain-type had also allotted him a young girl to lead him through the mazes of gilded and over-decorated corridors of the palace, for which Arthur was grateful. Although his sense of direction had been honed by years of exploration and before that, the sheer, fog-bound melancholy of his island, it could easily be confounded by something as winding and senseless as this labyrinth. He tried to keep his eyes on the plain gown of the girl rather than the furnishings. The gold paneling, the elaborately carved furniture, the finely made lace hangings - it was all gilt and pasteboard, really.  Earlier he had received the impression that court at Versailles was a joke, akin to a cheap pantomime, and that idea was only reinforced by its decor.

 _Commedia dell'Arte at it's finest, eh, Italy_? he thought as the girl came to a stop, her finger to her lips, and gestured to a closed door in front of them. Even that had not escaped the onslaught of paneling and finely painted reliefs. Arthur was reluctant to touch it from a mixture of disgust and awareness of its delicacy, but as the girl scampered away, he raised his fist and knocked lightly.

The door was opened almost immediately by a man who might have been identical to the chamberlain, aside from the obvious difference in their ranks. " _Bonjour, monsieur_ ," he said in the soft voice that Arthur noticed all male servants tended to adopt if they worked mostly around women. "What is your business here?"

"Er," Arthur replied eloquently, craning his neck and attempting to peer past the man's broad shoulder and poufed wig and into the room. All he received for his trouble was a disapproving look as the man stepped to the side to purposefully block his vision, and the impression of a gauzy, white, gold-and-pastel encrusted room, done in the worst excess of this decadent style. "I'm, my name is Arthur Kirkland," he told the servant awkwardly, raising his voice in the hope that someone - Francis - would hear him. "I'm here for, ah, Fr- Monsieur Bonnefoy."

There was a tittering in the background and the servant glanced over his shoulder. Arthur took the opportunity to stand on tiptoes and peer into the room.

A small woman with a very large wig and a very fashionable gown was standing. "Monsieur Chardin, step aside," she said, her voice light and airy. She emphasized the command with a gesture from one of her small, birdlike hands, and Chardin did so, revealing an extravagantly decorated room where three women were sitting at ease on chairs and cushions. " _Bienvenue_ , Monsieur Kirkland. Monsieur Francois said we might be expecting you sometime soon." Even her smile was practiced and delicate, sitting easily on her porcelain skin.

"Er," Arthur said again, feeling more awkward in her presence than when he was being intimidated by the would-be chamberlain, Chardin (who was now standing sullenly next to the door, not looking at him). "Yes." He glanced around the room, and the women giggled. The atmosphere was stifling. "Where is he?" Unless someone was hiding Francis under a settee...

Marie Antoinette made a careless gesture again, the same that had forced the servant Chardin to move aside. She tilted her head slightly as she watched Arthur, her gaze making him swallow nervously, and then switched to broken English. "Here or there, Francis is. Perhaps my... the..." She threw her hands up and switched back to French. " _La toilette_. I am practicing my English to write to the Duchesse de Devonshire. It goes slowly."

Arthur forced himself to smile and nod. "It seems good," he said politely. "And, er, the... toilet is...?"

"Chardin," Marie Antoinette said, giving the servant an imperious look. He stood straight and beckoned to Arthur before leaving the room.

The nation hurried to follow, glancing back once at the queen and her small coterie. "Er, _merci beaucoup_ ," he said, and they tittered at him once again, closeted in their own little prettied-up and painted world. They were just like children.

Chardin led him down a short corridor that was, if possible, even more decorated than the ones through which he had come. The bulky servant stopped at a small, recessed door whose only decoration was relief carvings in the wood around the edges and a bit of gilding near the doorknob. Compared to the rest of the doors he had seen, it was wonderfully tame.

"Enter as you will," Chardin told him, the softness of his voice an unsettling contrast with the decided hostility of his eyes. "Do not knock. The man..." He paused and gave Arthur a measuring look. Arthur met his eyes with no little defiance - if the man knew he was looking down to the nation, the bloody _British Empire_... Something in Arthur's expression must have told Chardin that he could speak his mind without fearing reparations. "He is not right in the head."

 _The bloody frog has never been right in the head, not even when he was just a kid_ , Arthur thought, would have grumbled aloud had Chardin not been there. "Is that so?" he asked, then placed his hand on the doorknob. "I will form my own opinion on the matter, thank you."

The servant gave a half-shrug, and his bulk was gone from Arthur's side with preternatural speed. Perhaps he had been uneasy, Arthur reflected, but pushed open the door anyway.

The first thing that hit him was the odor of roses, cloying and sickly sweet, and strong enough to kill a horse. He doubled over slightly, unable to hold back a cough or five, and when he finally straightened, his eyes watering slightly, the perfume had only dissipated slightly. It crossed his mind that this was perhaps some absurd practical joke played by Chardin and thought up by Marie Antoinette or Francis himself.

That vague suspicion was only strengthened when he actually stepped into the room, waving a hand in front of his face in a futile effort to clear the floral stench from his general vicinity. The small room was so covered in frills and decoration - gowns strewn haphazardly across poufed, plush stools, two delicately painted screens standing in each corner, the walls blinding white and gilt-paneled, the lamp a monstrosity of crystal and gold filigree - that he nearly missed the half-dressed figure sitting at a table in the back, in the middle of pinning up medium length blonde hair.

He blanched, and glanced around the room again. What with the scent, the clothing, the _woman_... There was no way around it. This was a ladies' dressing room.

"Er," he stammered, glancing fearfully at the woman, who appeared unperturbed by his entrance, twisting her hair into an elaborate coiffure atop her head. "M-my apologies, I didn't mean to barge in like that, ah, I'll be going now." He edged toward the door, looking anywhere but directly at her and Pitt would be _so_ angry if this caused some sort of international scandal. Damn Francis for -

The woman put the last hairpin carefully in place and turned on her stool. Arthur kept his eyes downcast, focusing on her feet, which were clad in white stockings and heeled shoes with gilt buckles. " _Bonjour_."

Arthur did not look up. By now he was sure that this was some absurd joke and that this woman - possibly a woman of ill repute! - had been hired to make an ass out of him, and she would try something and Francis would barge in at the worst possible moment to laugh and -

" _Angleterre_." There was a hint of rich laughter and mockery in the admittedly frail voice, and Arthur, out of startlement more than anything, looked up.

It was Francis sitting on the stool, Francis whose hair was pinned up at the back of his head, Francis who was wearing the shoes and the stockings and the... the petticoats - sitting in a ladies' dressing room. Abstractly, because in times of great shock the mind will focus on the smallest details, Arthur wondered whose dress Francis was wearing, because it looked slightly small in the shoulders and a little large in the chest. "You -" he began, managing to choke out the word even through his dumbfounded astonishment.

On the other hand, Francis appeared to find nothing odd with... wearing a _dress_. A _woman's_ dress. Not that, not that men wore dresses. At all. He gave that lazy smile again, his blue eyes twinkling just as Arthur remembered, only now there was a touch of rouge ( _rouge_!) on his face and his lips were painted. Maybe even the sparkle in his eye was unnatural. "It is good to see you after such a long time, _mon cher_ ," he said, somehow completely at ease.

Arthur heard more than felt his back hit the wall. He was numb, staring at Francis, who was wearing a dress. Not that such a thing was unexpected, when he really thought about it, but there was something so subtly and pervasively _wrong_ about this scene that it had his mind running in erratic, desperate circles. "You..." he said again, staring at Francis.

The blue-eyed nation gave his best innocent look. " _Moi, Angleterre_? I am dressing myself to be seen." He turned back to the dressing table but adjusted his mirror in order to see both his reflection and Arthur's face in the glass. "There will be a celebration tonight, a _fête-galant_ in the manner of Watteau, whose work still holds great charm though the man himself has been dead so long."

For all its flighty gilding and other such decorations, the wall was a comforting solidity against Arthur's back. "I-is that so?" Arthur asked, choking back the multiplicity of other questions he wanted (needed) to ask, foremost of which would be, _Why the bloody_ hell _are you wearing a dress?!_

"But everything dies," Francis continued, and was that more rouge he was dabbing onto his cheeks? It made his eyes look even more fever-bright and heightened the pallor of his forehead, not that he seemed to notice or care. "We die and we must hide it, or we must have a pretty death. The world is envious of our little deaths."

"Why are you wearing -" Arthur managed, before Francis turned once more and cut him off.

"You met my queen, did you? Marie Antoinette, _ma petite reine_. She is beautiful, is she not? Such a lovely child that she almost reminds me of..." His expression tilted slightly, seemed almost to slide sideways. "But of course, we do not trust her. She is a spy, you know. But we will not let her have what she wants, _l'Autrichienne_." Arthur blinked in mute surprise and it seemed almost as if Francis's expression snapped back into place again. " _Angleterre_ , do you see this gown?" He stood, letting the petticoats fall with a rustle around him.

It was absurd, Arthur thought, that he was wearing a dress, and as elegant as the fabric and the tailoring might be, it was still... And his behavior, as well. That was... He felt as though he were trapped in some sort of nightmare, and any minute Francis would shake him awake and he would find that it was the eleventh century again, and he was conquered _but Francis was sane_. As sane as he got. Not like, not like _this_.

Francis appeared undeterred by Arthur's lack of response. "Look," he said, smoothing the fabric with an air of pride. "This gown, it is a _robe à l'anglaise_. English style.  _Ma petite reine_ picked it out and I wore it in honor of your visit. The fabric..." He smoothed the blue muslin. "The finest that my _livres_ can buy."

Knowing the state of the economy, Arthur was almost tempted to make a comment along the lines of, _Well that's not very fine, is it_? He would have, had Francis not been - wearing a dress - so obviously... twisted. "Francis, what the bloody hell is going on?" he managed finally, as Francis turned his head to look at the back of the gown in the large mirror.

Francis pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow at Arthur through the mirror. "Whatever do you mean, _Angleterre_?" he asked, and then laughed - _giggled_. It was a poor, cracked imitation of Marie Antoinette and Arthur winced. "I prepare myself for a celebration. One must always look one's best." His reflection glanced sideways at Arthur again. "And you, _mon cher_? What brings you to _ma maison, mon petit palais_?"

"Er," Arthur said, taken aback. His motivation for visiting had all but fled when he walked into the dressing room. Perhaps even before that, when he was shown to the queen. "Visiting. Right. You - your economy is failing, and what's all this nonsense about estates?"

"Ah, _les états-généraux_ ," Francis replied. "We have not yet convened that, _non_ , but it will not be long, _mon cher_ , do not worry." Apparently fixing whatever pins or ties he had meant to adjust, he turned back to Arthur, who was taken aback yet again by the absurdity of the situation. "But are you staying for _la fête_? It would be a delight to have you." He reached up and smoothed a blond curl of hair away from his forehead. With the tight sleeves of the gown and the ruffled trim at his wrists, Francis's hands looked even larger, out of place against the dainty muslin.

"I," Arthur stammered, eyes darting from Francis's large, bony wrists to his stark, shadowed collarbones to the rouged hollows of his cheeks. Whatever party Francis was attending, Arthur knew he wouldn't belong. "No," he decided. "But Francis, really..."  _You're mad. You need help. You are wearing a_ dress. Francis, in his right mind, would never request the pleasure of Arthur's company, at least not without a stinging backhanded invitation or some kind of double entendre.

Francis tilted his head to the side - the same coquettish gesture used by Marie Antoinette earlier, Arthur realized with a light feeling that he had always equated with sheer panic. " _Mais, Angleterre_..." He walked forward with a step that was more of a drunken, leaning stumble, his shoes thunking clumsily against the rich, pastel and gold rug.

Arthur was already backed up against the wall and so he had nowhere to go as France stumbled into him, bracing himself on the nation's shoulder with a hand that trembled slightly as it made contact. Up close, the odor of roses was nearly overpowered by the rancid smell of hunger and sickness, and Arthur nearly gagged. Francis's elaborate coiffure was leaning dangerously and Arthur wondered, dizzily, how much of it was fake. They were nearly nose to nose, Francis sagging slightly at the knees so that the difference in their heights was negligible.

" _Angleterre_..." Francis breathed. His breath smelled as if he hadn't eaten for days.

Arthur coughed and turned away, though he couldn't get very far as Francis had effectively pinned him against the wall. It felt like the other nation was resting his entire weight against his shoulders. "What?" he croaked. "I'm not coming to your damn party."

"But we will dance, _oui_?" Francis's cold, clammy hands took Arthur's and the next moment Arthur found himself being launched into a clumsy waltz, Francis humming some nonsensical dancing tune. Unwilling, he stumbled after Francis, who was stumbling himself, leaning at crazy angles and, several times, barely saving himself from falling.

As Francis whirled him around a second time, Arthur grabbed his wrist. It was skin and bones in his grip. "The lady's not supposed to lead," he said sharply, tugging Francis to a halt. It seemed almost as if this brief physical contact had stabilized their relationship with one another, put things on more familiar ground. Arthur knew where he stood in this sort of situation, and Francis...

Francis appeared to have no idea where he was standing. His hand was still heavy on Arthur's shoulder and he was leaning forward slightly, panting, eyes glazed - too thin, too distracted, very obviously sick. "There will be cakes," he said, still apparently trying to convince Arthur to attend this party. " _L'Autrichienne_ , she asked me, " _Là, Monsieur Francois, the people are hungry, what shall I do_?'" To mock his queen he raised his voice to an absurdly high falsetto and fluttered a hand in front of his face. Arthur had never seen him mock someone so crudely or obviously before. "And I replied to her, ' _Ma petite reine, if they do not have bread, why cannot they have cakes_?  _Qu'ils mangent de la brioche._ ' And so we will make cakes."

Arthur felt sick to his stomach, and it wasn't just because of the cloying, overpowering scent of roses mixed with the smell of lingering sickness.  "But," he said, looking at Francis. "They're _your_ people. It's _your_ nation. You must be..."  _Starving_.

His words were apparently going unheeded. "We hold banquets and there are sumptuous foods and cake, and I eat, yet I cannot eat and I am hungry," Francis was saying in a strange, abstracted, singsong voice. "If I eat cakes, my stomach is empty, my flesh withers, and we hide our little deaths." He reached up with a shaking hand, cupped the side of Arthur's face, his blue eyes sliding crazily from Arthur's green eyes to the mirror to the ceiling to the floor and back. " _Angleterre_ , you help us die our little deaths."

"What are you talking about?" Arthur asked flatly, knocking Francis's hand aside. He immediately regretted it as the slightly taller nation stumbled and nearly fell, saving himself by grabbing at Arthur's jacket. Against his will, Arthur found himself reaching out and steadying Francis with a hand on his waist. "You're sick." He pressed a hand to Francis's forehead and then withdrew it before the frog could get any ideas. "Fever. You're _burning up_."

"Our little deaths," Francis repeated in a breathy undertone, his eyes glazed and staring at some point past Arthur's face. "Like actors in a play, _non_?"

It was discomfiting that Francis's words echoed Arthur's thoughts about the whole sham of Versailles in general. "It's a bloody harlequinade," he snapped, wanting to shake Francis but afraid something might break if he did. "And you're the worst of it. You're sick and you're -" _wearing a dress_ "- pretending that nothing's wrong, going to parties, dressing, dressing up!" He made a sharp, chopping motion with the hand that wasn't supporting Francis, as if that could convey every sentiment he had left unsaid.

Francis smiled at him, leaning dangerously close. "I invited you to the _fête_ as well, _mon_ _cher_. The harlequinade... Commedia..." His gaze was unfocused but now he was at least looking in Arthur's direction. Arthur tried to meet his eyes but failed to do so for long; there was something subtly wrong in those blue depths, and it made him nauseous. "Would that makest thou Columbine? And I, thy Harlequin?"

Arthur sputtered. It wasn't - well, first off, he wasn't some dowdy housewife, but - it wasn't the Elizabethan era any longer, and Francis wasn't some character from one of Mr. Shakespeare's plays! "What are you talking about?" he asked again. "Get a hold of yourself," he continued, putting both hands on Francis's upper arms and practically frog marching (there was irony there, he thought) him back to the stool, forcing him to sit.

"Yes Columbine," Francis said demurely, allowing Arthur to manhandle him. His lack of even token resistance frightened Arthur, if possible, all the more. And as soon as Arthur let go of Francis's shoulders, the nation swayed backwards dangerously.

"Dammit," Arthur cursed to himself, trying to balance Francis so he would be able to step away from the overpowering odors of flowers and illness. It wasn't working.

"I make a poor Harlequin," France was saying. "Look, I cannot tumble for you, _Angleterre_. But I can dress, see?" He smoothed the fabric of his gown again, his fingers shaking. "Dress for you..." His expression tilted and slid away again, leaving his countenance more serious, suddenly more... sane.

Arthur was trying to back away, but Francis reached out and grabbed his wrist, placing the nation's hand against his cheek. Arthur felt the slightly chalky texture of rouge underneath his hand, and the slow, disquieting burn of Francis's skin. His first instinct was to pull away - to _run_ \- but some look in Francis's eyes made him freeze.

" _Angleterre_ ," Francis said, and his voice was low. His blue eyes bore into Arthur's with febrile intensity. "This is their doing. Louis.  _L'Autrichienne_." He leaned forward slightly. "There will be blood, _mon_ _cher_ , blood and justice.  _Liberté_.  _Égalité_." He opened his mouth, took a breath, and suddenly the dazed, unfocused look was back. "Will you be staying for the _fête_?" he asked, releasing Arthur's wrist to adjust his hair in a gesture that was undoubtedly copied from his queen. "I tell you there is cake, and perhaps we will eat from the gold edged china."

"No," Arthur says firmly, taking a large step back and rubbing his wrist as if it had been burnt. When he looked at his palm, it was smeared with pink from Francis's rouge. With a grimace, he wiped it against his breeches, hoping it wouldn't leave too much of a stain. "I need to go. Back to England. It's... the government is very important." He felt like he was trying to make excuses. Why did he need to justify himself? He belonged in England, not here with Francis who was obviously suffering and... Arthur swallowed, glancing at the nation, who was staring sideways at his reflection in the mirror, still primping. "Listen, Francis... Take care of yourself."

Francis hummed a few bars of what sounded like a waltz, the only acknowledgment he heard. But Arthur couldn't stay more, he couldn't stay - he felt like he was going to be sick. It wasn't just the unbearable stench of the room or even seeing Francis like this, it was mostly the thought that - _I could be like this. This could happen to, to any of us, and we wouldn't be able to stop it_... He swallowed again - it was that, or vomit - and his hand found the doorknob behind him.

Francis appeared completely absorbed in the mirror again, cooing at his reflection, but he looked up when the door opened, resembling, perhaps, a caged, exotic bird in the mirror. "Goodbye, Francis," Arthur told him, because he couldn't help and there was nothing more he could say.

" _Au revoir_ , Columbine," Francis replied, his reflection giving Arthur a thoroughly mad smile.

Arthur was sure to shut the door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> The art style so vilified by Arthur is " _rococo_ ," which was a term originally chosen to describe interior decorating but was then transfered to paintings and art style of the same period. Basically a decadent version of the previous Baroque, rococo emphasized intricate patterns, scrollwork, and filigree, and the favored color scheme was gold, white, and pastel. Rococo art emphasized frivolous, erotic love and family life and was often luminous and brightly colored.
> 
>  _Commedia dell'Arte_ developed in Italy in the 1550s and from there spread to France and England. It featured stock characters such as Arlecchino (the clown), Pantalone (the merchant), and Columbine (the common-sense servant or housewife). Using these identities, actors would improvise a scenario. They also had stock comedy routines, such as tripping and falling into a bucket of water.
> 
> In France and England, commedia dell'arte became known as the "harlequinade," featuring the misadventures of Harlequin, his sweetheart Columbine, and her father, Pantaleone.
> 
> Watteau (1684-1721), the painter mentioned briefly by Francis, was a genius of rococo painting. He enjoyed painting scenes from commedia dell'arte. A whole new category, the _fête-galant_ , was developed for him by the Parisian Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture, which valued history paintings and portraiture and was not sure what to make of Watteau's elegant, theatrical, party scenes.
> 
> William Pitt the Younger, who will be angry at Arthur if there is a scandal about him being found in a ladies' dressing room, was the Prime Minister of Britain from 1783-1801 and 1804-1806. He was appointed to the position when he was only twenty-four.
> 
> " _L'Autrchienne_ ," or "the Austrian," was the French nickname for Marie Antoinette, and could easily be changed to " _l'autruchienne_ ," or, in French, "the ostrich bitch." She became queen in a time when anti-Austrian sentiment was rampant and many viewed her as a spy for the Austrian government. In truth, her political influence was negligible. She was also widely unpopular for her extravagance in a time when France was beset by widespread economic troubles. She was also learning English and had a correspondence with the Duchess of Devonshire, whose personality and temperament were similar to hers.
> 
> " _Qu'ils mangent de la brioche_ " is the saying attributed to Marie Antoinette and translated as " _Let them eat cake_." However, there is no record that she actually said such a thing, and in fact, her letters show that she cared deeply about the plight of her subjects and would not have been so ignorant or insensitive. The phrase was first recorded by Enlightenment philosopher Rousseau and is sometimes attributed to Marie Antoinette's mother, the Austrian empress Maria Theresa.
> 
> " _Liberté_ , _égalité_ , _fraternité_!" was the rallying cry of the French Revolution - "Liberty, equality, fraternity!" The _états généraux_ , a representative legislative body, was one of the instigators behind the revolution. Composed of representatives from the three main classes of French society (nobles, clergy, and bourgeoisie), it was summoned for the first time in over a century by Louis XVI to help deal with the pressing financial crisis of the nation. In a conflict over voting rights, the Third Estate (bourgeoisie and peasants) ended up taking over the body, defying the king, and declaring themselves the National Assembly, thus more or less beginning the French Revolution. (This is a very oversimplified version of the facts.)


End file.
